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301 pages, Paperback
First published September 12, 2017
To read the priority message, he had to take out a key that looked like a straw from his desk and then check the calendar. The kola nut was designated for Tuesday. He opened up a small jar, extracted a kola nut, peeled it, and took a bite, feeling a sharp rush as the stimulant coursed through his taste buds and gums. Kola was still used in Nigeria as a traditional greeting, part of a ritual to begin conversation among a number of tribes, and this, along with many other traditions, had been integrated within the facility’s security systems. The nut tasted of metal, like a cool can of Coke, and exhilaration at the same time. After chewing for a moment, he inserted the straw into his Geckofone and blew into it. The device analyzed the particles in his breath and opened the message.
A convoclip from Sybil.
“Hey, Dad! I’m doing good down here in Grenada. Second month of classes.”
“How’s the weather, baby?” he whispered to his daughter. The rest of the world seemed to dissolve around him.
“It’s all right,” she responded. “Hot all the time, but at least we can go swimming in the sea. Thurston bought me some snorkeling gear, and he said he’s going to teach me how to dive next week. We might even see some sharks!”
“Who’s Thurston?”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t know the answer to that. Have another question?”
“Is Thurston your boyfriend?”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t know the answer to that. Have another question?”
“Are you dating someone right now?”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t know the answer to that. Have another question?”
(...) Convoclips took up less data than video clips and could get through the Loom firewall, but they were frustrating, designed to make the messages more intimate by simulating a conversation. It didn’t always work. (...)
“How do you like Yale, Sybil?”
“I’m doing good down here in Grenada. Second month of classes.”
Doing well, he thought. She’d picked that poor grammar up from his ex-wife, and she kept saying it much to his irritation.
Seeing that he wasn’t going to get anything more out of her, probably on purpose, because Sybil was clever when it came to talking about her boyfriends, he said: “You got enough money, baby?”
Bello soon took the podium and a hush descended over the audience. “There are seeds I’ve seen on the Jos Plateau,” he began, “that can only propagate by means of fire. It takes a broiling, enraged inferno to crack the thick shell and release the seed, which will be carried by the wind over the charred, brittle earth. Only then does the seed enlodge itself in the soil and spread its tendrils to grow into a hearty plant. We too have been forged in the fire. We too required the cauldron of the sun to melt down our ambitions, our dreams, and our enmities to seek out a bold new direction. The Flare—the great cosmic intervention—has given us an opportunity to prove our ingenuity and to right the wrongs of the past. Before it, our program had a modest goal to send an astronaut to the moon, but now our aspirations are much higher, tied indeed to the very fate of space travel. Other countries shook their heads when we announced our intention to rescue Masha Kornokova. But we weren’t dismayed.
“Nigeria has looked beyond our imaginary borders so that we could find you. You are the paragons of African ingenuity who are destined for the stars—the bones of our women are nearly twenty-five percent more dense than other people, making us perfect for long-term space exploration. We all must take our opportunities when they arise, and our moment is now.”
“I signed up for the exchange program,” she continued, “thinking I could do my part in the mission. But I was bored to tears when I got to Kano. The rocket platforms had not even been built yet, so I spent my time recording local musicians. I record all my own music, you see, but not like ethnomusicologists. It’s important to me to record the ambient environment as well—the insects, the birds, street sellers, even the car horns. I went out to Lake Chad to record some musicians playing outside, and the biophony—that’s the full range of sounds in an environment—is extraordinary. Around the lake, the insects time their vocalizations so that they don’t sing at the same moment. This way they have a better chance of finding a mate. And if an insect has to vocalize at the same time as a bird, or a mouse, or a bat, it does it at a different frequency, so that the signal can still get through. You can find this all over the world in any rich habitat. But what I found out by Chad—listen to me, I’m making it sound like the lake is a person—the soundscape is so rich, and the musicians are part of it. I met this lute player who wasn’t especially skillful, not in the way you find with kora players, but her music felt so right. She had good rhythm, I knew that much, but only when I listened to the recording later did I understand it wasn’t the rhythm. She had tuned her lute a half step down so that it fit perfectly with the cicadas and other insects in the background. Her music fit the biophony. On its own, no one would have called the sound beautiful.”